


Simply

by Evilpixie



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Boundaries, Explicit Sexual Content, Hidden Depths, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Possibly Unrequited Love, Subjective, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce was never, had never, been simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simply

Bruce was never, had never, been simple.

 

Everything about him, every fibre of his being, was inexplicably sinfully complex. Every steel eyed look layered, every movement practised and precise, and every word a key that could unlock a hidden door. Everything a breadcrumb trail of clues that led to the man hidden beneath his myriad of personas and identities.

 

Bruce Wayne.

 

Clever, challenging, and complex.

 

Beautiful, brilliant, and bewitching.

 

Now watching him with an almost aggressive intensity.

 

Clark reached forward and gently began undoing Bruce’s shirt buttons. He started at the top, just under his throat over his collar bone, and worked down to slowly part the expensive cotton. His fingers lingered on each button, on the texture of the fabric, and on the extra little bit of scar stained skin he exposed with each button popped.

 

Knuckles gently ghosted over the twist and buckle of old wounds, fingertips stroked the blotch of bruises, and his palm pressed flat against the expanse of his pectorals to feel as well as hear the steady, powerful, beat of his heart. A heartbeat that, if he listened close enough, could drown out the world.

 

Bruce flinched at the contact before consciously accepting it. The line of his shoulders shivered and slumped, brow puckered as eyes closed, and captured breath slipped out through his teeth. Muscle trembled under Clark’s fingers.

 

He allowed Bruce to get used to the contact; waited and drew soft circles on his skin with his fingers as Bruce slowly relaxed into his touch.

 

He was balancing on the edge of a knife. He always was during these rare few nights Bruce would allow him close enough to touch him.

 

One mistake and this slow waltz, his seduction, would be over. One mistake and Bruce would dismiss him with a growl, disappear behind the lead lined cowl, and leave. Leave him cold and alone so Bruce could overdose in the power, the abuse, and punishment of criminals stalking through the streets of his city. In his unspoken addiction to the cape and cowl.

 

One false step and the night would once more belong to the Bat.

 

Clark rolled the man’s shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the bedroom floor in a heap by his ankles. The fabric whispered as it settled. Bruce’s eyes danced down and then back up. Icy blue as telling as stone.

 

He gave nothing away as Clark stepped closer to carefully slide his arms around him, finger the edge of his designer jeans, and tilt his head down to gently nip and suck at the side of Bruce’s neck. Allowed himself a moment to indulge in the taste of the other man’s skin, the earthy scent of his natural musk, and the feel of his pulse moving against him. Beautiful. Brilliant. Bruce.

 

Clark paused as he heard Bruce’s breath hiss through his teeth. Continued when the man issued no order or ultimatum. No angry rejection snarled in the voice of his city’s infamous vigilante and no hungry demand for more. Nothing but mute acceptance and smell tell tale sighs of arousal. It didn’t take Clark long to find that spot – _that_ spot – hidden somewhere between neck and shoulder.

 

Bruce shivered.

 

He gnawed slowly, sensually, on the muscle join and pressed his naked body against Bruce’s bare chest. Skin met skin, body heat shared, and lips working a wet red mark onto Bruce’s neck.

 

Bruce didn’t move. He was still. Impassive. Hands hanging at his side. Clark felt his brow crease.

 

Bruce was usually responding by now. At least a little.

 

The knife was growing sharper. The chance of success slim. The price of failure steep.

 

Soon Bruce would shrug him off, disappear wordlessly into the hungry maw of the cave, and fly out into the tangled mass of the city beyond. He would not resurface until the light of dawn began to bleach the far horizon and then he would only collapse into his bed under a coat of new bruises. He never said a word to Clark after patrol. Never even acknowledged he was there.

 

Worst was when he returned with the tell tale five fingered scratches that reached places his armour should have protected him. When he returned with skin that smelt like sex and lips that tasted like Jasmine.

 

When he returned after a night chasing the Cat.

 

Clark knew he didn’t have the right to be jealous. Bruce spurned romance and the type of relationship that it implied. Turned his back on the conformity and constraints that a conventional union would call for. Between them there was nothing exclusive or restricted. There were no walls… and no promises.

 

His life belonged to Gotham and she left no room for another.

 

That Bruce allowed him this; allowed him these rare nights in his house and the chance to seduce the man beneath the bat and the billionaire playboy; was miracle enough. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, ask for anything more. Not when he knew Bruce was already giving him so much.

 

So much more than he ever gave anyone.

 

Bruce sighed and shifted his head to the side.

 

Clark felt his heart twist and quickly accepted the unspoken invitation. Moved to encompass the other man’s lips with his own. He kissed him, fell into the intoxicating flavour of his skin, and drowned in the sheer unguarded beauty of the moment. Caught his breath as Bruce moved his lips in response, as a tongue tentatively traced the inside of Clark’s mouth, and those hands finally moved to return the embrace.

 

He was responding.

 

Holding him softly, and now harder. Kissing him gently, and now rougher. Staying… staying with him.

 

Clark felt a moment of thrilled escalation as he seized upon the unexpected victory. Upon the feverous realisation that tonight at least Bruce was here. Here with him.

 

If he could keep up their dance.

 

Because even now he knew if he made a mistake; moved too fast or too slow; Bruce’s strange misplaced uncertainty, his stillness, would return and his eyes flick back towards the window and the jagged skyline of the city beyond. If Clark couldn’t capture and keep him he would break away to feed a darker, more dangerous, hunger.

 

Clark pulled apart their kiss, stroked the side of Bruce’s face in a dangerously affectionate gesture, and dropped to his knees. Bruce watched him in naked want as Clark removed his belt and worked down the grey black fabric of those designer jeans. As they moved below his hips Clark hooked his fingers in the hem of the exposed underwear so both items of clothing peeled off with the same, slow, movement.

 

Slow.

 

Slow was always best with Bruce.

 

If he went fast Bruce would be rough and ready. He’d be aggressive and angry. He would be Batman. And Batman could never be happy partnering with someone stronger than he. He would wrestle, glare, and finally push him aside with an animalistic growl. He would violently explore every inch of his body and with a snarl abandon his indestructible skin to search for something, someone, else.

 

Someone he could capture, claim, and control.

 

Someone he could dictate and dominate.

 

Someone he could mark.

 

Because even when Clark surrendered and submitted his body never would.

 

Bruce watched in intense unguarded fascination as Clark slid his clothing down his thighs and leant forward to trail his tongue from the protruding point of his hip, down the crease of toned muscle, and along the half hard length of his shaft. He gripped the other man’s hips and gently stroked this thumbs in untidy circles as he moved and withdrew his mouth only to swallow him again.

 

Kissing, licking, and sucking his whole shaft into his mouth with undisguised desire.

 

Soon Bruce was heavy and hard in his mouth, the taste of pre-come splashed thick and warm across the back of his tongue, and a fist was tightening in his hair. Urging him on faster even as Clark tugged Bruce’s hips forward so they met with a wet smack of flesh on lip.

 

Clark knew his eyes were colouring red.

 

He could feel the warm prickle of heat trickle across his iris. Felt the twin heat in his cheeks as they too deepened in shade with every coming together of their bodies. Felt the mixed fluid leaking from his bottom lip, the sweaty mess of hair falling across his brow, and his spiked heartbeat thudding in his neck.

 

He looked up to see if Bruce was in a simular state. He wasn’t. He was worse.

 

Face sparkling with sweat, throat working, and brow crumbling as he slipped silently over the brink.

 

Clark watched in amazement as Bruce grunted and snarled through the messy conception, birth, peak, and violent death throes of his orgasm. As he gritted his teeth, clutched his hair, and pounded into his mouth. Bruce painted the back of his throat. Clark swallowed his gag reflex and gulped hungrily at the spray of seed. Tasted it like a rich delicacy. Memorized the exact texture, flavour, and feel of it. Of Bruce. Of Bruce’s desire.

 

Wished he could taste it, and nothing but it, forever.

 

Bruce must have had the same idea because his hand twisted in Clark’s hair and yanked him up onto his feet to share an open mouthed kiss. Lips collided with an angry force, tongue ransacked his mouth, and teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

 

Too aggressive. Too angry. Too Batman.

 

Clark swallowed the spike of alarm and forced himself to slow down the kiss; to run his hands in smooth soothing patterns along Bruce’s bare back, and to change the rough possessive attack of tongue into a probing share of selves. It didn’t work. Not entirely.

 

Bruce growled and pushed him back until Clark’s knees collided with the edge of the bed. He obediently fell back onto the mattress rather than splinter the expensive wood of the bed frame. Watched as Bruce straddled him, ground into him, and kissed with a on again off again violence. The Bat and the man caught in their own turbulent dance as they vied for control.

 

“Bruce…”

 

The man stiffened.

 

It was the first word he’d spoken to him since Bruce had told him to be on his bed that night. It was the first thing either of them had said since Bruce walked into the room to stop and regard him sitting naked and nervous on his mattress.

 

More. It was a crude naming of the man he wanted to be pinning him down. Of who he wanted to be looking out of those eyes as they thrust against each other. Of who he wanted to kiss.

 

Bruce.

 

He reached forward, hooked his hand behind Bruce’s neck, and brought him down to reconnect their lips. Felt a shiver of fleeting uncertainty before Bruce returned the kiss. Before they were once again moving together, breathing together, and grinding their groins together with urgent force.

 

Clark rolled them so he was on top and could pull off Bruce’s jeans now gaping open low around his hips. They landed on his discarded shirt and finally left Bruce bare and below him. He was beautiful. Beautiful in a way entirely his own. Eyes critical and calculating despite the orgasm just worked from his body, lips too full to belong to a man, and skin touched with interlocking scars.

 

Clark slid his fingers along those scars.

 

Felt the buckle and twist of broken flesh and the seams it severed beneath the skin.

 

Bruce’s brow pleated and his eyes grew strangely distant, almost pained.

 

With a growl Clark bolted from his embrace, retrieved the lube from the draw, and returned in a blur of movement to retake his place and slick a wet finger into the other man. Bruce flinched and hissed through his teeth but spread his legs to allow for better access.

 

Sometimes Clark hated the world for what it had done to Bruce. He hated seeing that distant ache in his eyes, the scars that stamped his skin, and knowing of the dark burning hunger for revenge; a revenge that would consume his life, ruin his body, and destroy him. Destroy him in a moment when some goon got a lucky shot, or destroy him slowly; eating him alive from the inside out.

 

He pushed a second finger through the tight pucker of muscle and immediately bent his knuckle to scrape his fingertips against the pronounced bundle of nerves inside him. Bruce twitched violently but didn’t make a sound.

 

Sometimes Clark hated the world so much all he wanted to do was take him away. Take Bruce away from the cruel soul sucking city and put him somewhere safe. Somewhere where nothing would ever hurt him again.

 

Sometimes all he wanted was to do something unforgivable.

 

And Bruce would hate him, would curse him, would forbid him from touching him but sometimes… sometimes even that didn’t matter. Because no matter how much Bruce hated him Clark would always love Bruce. Unconditioned and unrequited.

 

But sometimes all he wanted was to hug him, kiss him, and be with him. To hold him, have him, and hear Bruce promise that he loved him too.

 

All the things a casual occasional lover shouldn’t want. Could never have.

 

He pushed a third finger in and won a low groan from the man. Wanton and broken but still reserved. Still smothered and swallowed behind the impossible amount of walls Bruce had constructed around him. By the masks, the personas, and secrets. By the complex riddle, the murky depths, of the man. By all that lay uncovered.

 

Because Bruce was never, had never, been simple.

 

Clark ground his fingers against his prostate and watched in fascination as Bruce’s brow collapsed and his mouth opened to suck in a sharp breath of air. He could see his pulse moving in his neck. Spiked but still strong and sure.

 

Clark felt Bruce start to harden again against his hip. The contact sent a fresh wave of blood down to his already aching arousal.

 

With a growl Clark withdrew his fingers, floated off the mattress, and flipped Bruce onto his stomach.

 

Bruce stiffened in shock as he landed facedown onto the mattress, snarled wordlessly over his shoulder, and began to roll back over.

 

Clark fell onto his back, pinned him, and with a soft kiss interlaced the fingers of their hands; effectively capturing and holding his arms still.

 

“Clark…”

 

“It’s better this way,” he promised and kissed the back of his neck.

 

It was a lie. It wasn’t better; it was safer. Safer, because he couldn’t look into Bruce’s eyes as he came and pretend this was to him what it was to Bruce. He couldn’t hide the fact he loved them at that moment. Not to Bruce. Bruce would see it. He would know. And this… this would be over.

 

Clark entered him.

 

Bruce jerked back against him and groaned low and deep. A long tortured sound that whittled away his reserves of control and pulled Clark’s lips against Bruce neck like a magnet to metal.

 

“Shh…”

 

He pulled on hand free to reach down and gently trace kryptonian symbols into the skin of his thigh. Bruce clenched his liberated hand into a fist; gripping the bedding beneath him as Clark buried himself deeper.

 

Bruce was tight and hot around his shaft, the lube he’d pushed into him earlier a warm wet presence, and the stretched ring of his entrance a firm pinch at his base.

 

Once he was fully within the other man Clark paused to allow Bruce some time to adjust.

 

He nibbled his ear, softly squeezed the hand still entangled with is own, and reached down to gently slide his hand along the stretched rim of his arse taunt around his girth.

 

Bruce twitched and mashed his face into the mattress.

 

Clark felt his heart twist.

 

Bruce was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever known. He wished… wished… things were different. He wished he could…

 

Clark began a slow careful grind. When Bruce took him smoothly he began to thrust.

 

He set a pace which soon had them both grunting and swearing between messy gasps of air.

 

It was enough.

 

Bruce belonged to his mission, his city, and nothing would ever change that. He had been hurt too much, fought too long, to surrender. To turn away from every gun, trigger, and bullet aimed and unfired. And that dedication, that drive, was just another complexity that defined and shaped him. Another branch on the tall twisted tree that was Bruce. Another beauty, another scar, another part of him.

 

Bruce would never love him in the same way he loved Bruce.

 

To share his body and bring him pleasure, it was enough. To be allowed to take him, and to make this stunning creature cry out in raw need, it was enough. More than enough. More than he could ever ask for. Because it was more than Bruce had ever, could ever, promise. It was all he could ever give.

 

And it was enough.

 

Bruce was rolling his hips back to meet his every stroke and thrusting forward in helpless need against the firm bedding below. Clark paused, hauled Bruce effortlessly up onto his knees, keeping his chest against the mattress, and wrapped a vibrating fist around the base of his cock. Bruce cried out as the change in angle allowed Clark to penetrate deeper. Clark impaled Bruce with rough rapid strokes even as he traced the veins on his cock and roughly thumbed the narrow slit protruding from his foreskin.

 

Nipped the skin of a scar as Bruce muffled his moan against his forearm.

 

Bruce came first. The clench and shiver of his muscles was all it took to pull Clark over the edge after him.

 

He groaned through his release, shallowly thrusting into Bruce as he filled him.

 

They both collapsed back onto the bed panting through a string of exhausted curses and broken sentences. Bruce was boneless and already rapidly changing gears for sleep as Clark rolled him over and started to lap up the ejaculate splashed across his belly. Watched those grey blue eyes blink back up at the ceiling and roll down to watch him tongue his chest in soothing strokes.

 

When he was done Clark kissed the other man’s spent cock, thighs, and hips. Moved slowly up to suck and tongue a nipple before crawling up his body to nip at his exposed throat and finally lips. Bruce’s eye lashes dusted his cheek as he pushed forward into the kiss. It was slow, short, and slackened as the other man slumped back into the bed with a soft sigh.

 

“Damn you, Kent,” he breathed. Hot breath gushed over Clark’s lips. “Damn you.”

 

Bruce kissed him once more with an almost pained breath before dropping back to the bed. His eyes flickered closed and his head lolled to the side as if it took gigantean effort to hold it up.

 

Clark sunk down beside him and gently rearranged him into a more comfortable position. By the time he was done Bruce’s breathing was even and slow. He ghosted one last kiss onto his lips before sinking into the bedding to slowly join him in sleep. A sleep spiced with the musky scent of their shared pleasure still heavy in the dense air of Gotham’s night.

 

Half an hour later he blinked awake as Bruce lurched off the bed and disappeared down the hall and into the bat cave. He shivered as the chill flooded into the spot Bruce had occupied and hugged the sheet to his chest.

 

His lips tingled. When he touched them they were warm and wet.


End file.
